PoetryEtc Featured Poet: Liz Kirby

Of another world the other.

Herds gather in the night camp;
handfuls of grain
thrown before them.
The valley hoards domestics.

Snails leave their silver trails.

The air brings down bad humours.
Eyes of sad agate and emerald.
You, in my eyes passing for sheep.
Sheep that pass for a river.

Bring all your essentials.

Scatter your black gems.
Between the uncles
and the stale evening.
How rare it is to be called.
Liz!
They call me.
Liz!